


Anticipation makes a careful farmer

by id_ten_it



Series: Inktober [8]
Category: Historical Farm (UK TV)
Genre: Birmingham City, England (Country), Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Inktober, Inktober 2020, London, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:34:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28040037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/id_ten_it/pseuds/id_ten_it
Summary: They meet in a too-hot, too-noisy cafe and can barely see out the windows for the condensation.“Modern life” Peter grumbles, “can’t beat it.” Peter’s too fond of Alex to throw in their friendship for a quick tumble, but Peter’s been mulling it over as he works (and some other times) and feeling latent attraction long suppressed bubbling up.The boys get together in between takes, and Ruth couldn't be happier for them."It is in the exercise of this faculty of anticipation that the experienced and careful farmer is contradistinguished from the ignorant and careless."- The book of the farm, Henry Stephens.
Relationships: Peter Ginn/Alex Langlands
Series: Inktober [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2003845
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	1. Winter, London

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Inktober prompt nr 22 (switch) from the alternative Inktober pompt list found [here](https://vkelleyart.tumblr.com/post/630712063324504064/we-are-doing-this-thing-yall-so-it-was), with thanks for the originator for doing the hard yards and providing a better alternative to the original.
> 
> This story is centered on the premise of ‘what if?’ – what if we changed one little thing; how would that play out and what would it impact? This is clearly then a work of fiction with significant liberties taken in the interests of a good story.

They’re supposed to be having staggered furlough over Christmas. Ruth, almost without asking, has been given the week itself. Alex was planning to go after New Year and Peter the week after, but then life – weather, animals, filming requirements – intervene and the boys end up overlapping.  
Alex has been out all day, his fourth day away, catching up with friends and drinking the sort of rich, processed, milky hot chocolate he’s been missing. Not that tea and posset isn’t warming, but it isn’t the same. He’s meandering along the station thinking about a late-afternoon trip to an old haunt when his phone goes. It’s Peter. “Hullo. Are you drinking a peppermint chocolate right now?”  
“Just finished a gingerbread one” Alex admits, absurdly pleased that Peter remembers these details, “How’re you, Fonzy?”  
“Helplessly bored actually.”  
“I’m honoured” Alex retorts, drily. “Shouldn’t you be busy doing family Christmas things?”  
“You’ve met my family. I’d rather ring you.”   
Alex smiles at the admission, even though its grey and drizzly and the steady dripping from a blocked drain above his left shoulder is driving him a little batty.   
“D’you want a peppermint chocolate?” Peter adds, and Alex huffs a laugh because so help him, he _does_ , especially if it’s with Peter with whom he hasn’t spoken all week and who he misses like his right arm. “Go on then. Tomorrow?” He suppresses a shiver – despite the shelter of all these buildings his modern acrylic jumper isn’t as good at keeping the cold out as period wool was. Peter’s response is almost shy. “How about tonight? Unless you’re busy.” Cold forgotten Alex says yes, makes arrangements on autopilot.

Peter is the sort of close friend whom you needn’t worry about too much. He’s fairly self-sufficient and wears his heart on his sleeve so any issues are usually easily dealt with. When his last boyfriend left him, Alex had found out by the simple method of returning home from work one day to Peter sitting in Alex’s armchair drinking a beer and watching daytime telly. Sudden requests for coffee aren’t normal.

They meet in a too-hot, too-noisy cafe and can barely see out the windows for the condensation.  
“Modern life” Peter grumbles, “Can’t beat it.” Luckily for him Alex isn’t above balefully eyeing middle-aged gossips taking up far too much space and when Peter returns from ordering it is to actual seats and a small bubble of privacy thanks to the veritable wall of shopping bags the gossips have begrudgingly moved to the floor. They chat idly – Peter’s Aunts and Uncles, Alex’s family dinner – till the drinks are just the memory of foam on Peter’s beard. “Fonz” Alex asks, as gently as he can, “What do I need to know?” He thinks Peter may be pink behind the magnificent beard.  
“Tom came in the day you left…”  
“I know. He has terrible timing.”  
“We got talking after. And Ruth’s been nagging me for a while but…we get no privacy there.” Alex tries to look calm and not like a man whose heart was beating double time. Peter knew him well enough that his show of sang-froid could only work when Peter was concentrating on something else.  
“I think” Peter concludes sombrely, “That we should give it a go. Now. Going on to then if it works. Especially” he adds, a little obscurely, “Now that Mark is going to be living in. Not that Ruth would make it seem unfair but…You know.” Alex blushes himself at the insinuation, breath catching in his throat. He can’t articulate, only nod a little dumbly and take Peter’s hand. “I want to give us a real go though” Peter adds, a stubborn set to his jaw, “I don’t want to lose you if it all goes wrong, either.”  
“Neither” Alex croaks. “I said that before, remember?”

Peter smiles briefly in remembrance of Alex at the early Christmas, after filming, helping finish the drink and letting dutch courage talk him into speaking his heart. Peter’s too fond of Alex to throw in their friendship for a quick tumble, and besides that the next morning was a flurry of activity and they barely got a chance to speak beyond a warm reassurance that Alex hadn’t ruined everything. But Peter’s been mulling it over as he works (and some other times) and feeling latent attraction long suppressed bubbling up. If it doesn’t work he’s confident they can finish filming then go their separate ways. Ruth is confident too; happy to run interference and quietly certain it won’t be needed. The three days Alex was away without him had apparently not resulted in him being as stoic as he’d thought and besides, Ruth has always been good at reading people.

Scratching his beard, he realises he’s been quiet too long, nudges Alex’s ankle with his foot. “I doubt it’ll go wrong anyway.” Then, suddenly realising he is allowed to say things like this, “How about dinner tonight?”  
“Dunno if I’m dressed for it” Alex looks down at his t-shirt and jeans, glances back at Peter’s ditto. “Unless you want to come over?”  
On the one hand, dinner in Alex’s flat – so full of books they’ll have to sit awfully close – sounds enticing. On the other, there’ll be time enough where they haven’t this choice and have to ham it up for the cameras. “We’ll go home and change. Do something different, more…couple-y.” Alex beams, ducks his head; Peter knows he’s made the right call.

Alex dresses carefully, telling himself it doesn’t matter but unable to help having a shower and trying on two shirts before settling for the one Peter once mentioned made him look a thousand pounds. There’s no reason to be nervous but he is anyway, revels in it almost as a sign of anticipation.   
The tube is flowing smoothly and he appears at the North African restaurant Peter’s been dying to try in good time. Following hastily-texted instructions he asks for a table under Peter’s name and is directed ‘Right this way, Mr Ginn.’  
Hmm. Probably best not to consider the warm squirm this elicits.

Peter makes a third attempt to clean the dirt from his hands, and rushes down the street with neither hat nor gloves. It just doesn’t seem cold enough, huddled in a large modern city, to need the extra protection and he’s barely chilled by the time he arrives. “Ah, Mr Ginn is already seated Sir” The waitress smiles, as Peter scrunches his scarf into his jacket and briskly rubs hands together. “Oh?” Peter follows obediently, unable to help a small frisson of _home_ when he sees Alex beam at him from behind the drink menu. “I’ll be back for your drinks in a moment, Mr Ginn” The waitress confirms to Alex, loping off with the grace of the gazelles on the wall.

“Mr Ginn” Peter arches one eyebrow, lip twitching, “A pleasure. I hope you weren’t waiting long.”  
“Just arrived” Alex confirms, eyebrow raising in response, “They were so confident I was you that I hadn’t the heart to tell them I was only me.”  
“Hardly only.” Peter’s never been one for overly-smooth words but nobody expects them from him anyway, least of all Alex. Alex knows who he is. “You look good” he tries, then when Alex looks startled, “Brown suits you.” Brown probably isn’t the right word for the sort of golden tan that runs through Alex’s white shirt, the deep maroon of his shoes and belt, the suit trousers he got for his inaugural lecture that are the warm colour of aged wood, but Alex grins bashfully and works on not hiding his face.   
“Thank you” clear amber eyes meet his, “You look good too you know?” Apparently unable to help himself, “Hands not too cold?”   
“Mostly just red from the scrubbing” Peter admits, “Dunno how they feel about dung in here.”  
“It’s still a traditional building material in northern Africa” Alex points out, offering his hand and smiling warmly, “You’d think they’d be fine with it.” They haven’t talked about how public they want to be, but they’ve both been open in the past. Peter lets Alex chafe his hands warm. “You scrub up well. It’s…” Alex huffs a shy laugh, tries again. Peter is overwhelmed with thankfulness that he finally gets to see this side of Alex directed purely at him. “Easy to get used to someone, then you come out like this…reminds me how lucky I am.” More gently, “Don’t hide Peter, c’mon. If you’re going to do that I’ll shave your beard off in the middle of the night.”  
“You don’t shave often enough to be able to do that” Peter complains, but he’s laughing through his flush now, less bashful.   
“It would be a great shame” Alex agrees drily, “I have high hopes for that beard. But you must learn to take the compliment.” As Peter blushes for an entirely different reason, the waitress returns and asks for their drink order.

They talk more comfortably after that, the easy talk of long friendship tinged with an awakening awareness of being allowed – encouraged – to say things, do things, long supressed. Peter, watching Alex for once finish his mouthful completely before talking, feels the same sort of joy he felt when they finally got Princess into the pigsty; this is what he should be doing and this is who he should be doing it with. Still, though Alex will probably understand, he decides not to tell him he’s thinking of their pig right now. As entrees turn into mains, mains to dessert, Peter realises that this is the longest meal they’ve shared together. Alex seems in no rush, and has in fact dextrously eaten dessert one-handed, the other apparently unwilling to leave Peter’s space. Peter himself cannot complain, and mostly manages his knafeh one-handed as well. He’s wiping his mouth and preparing to finish his wine when Alex falls silent and he looks up.

Alex is looking at him like he’s single-handedly brought in the hay. It’s a heady look. “I think I’ll get the bill” is all he says, but he says it with eyes heavy with promise.   
“Let me?”  
“You can get the next one” Alex replies, signalling and running his thumb over Peter’s knuckles like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it, like it’s a comforting movement he’s confident enough to claim. The caveman in Peter stands taller.   
“I like the sound of that” he admits, “A next time” he clarifies, as Alex raises a questioning eyebrow and hands over his card to the waitress.   
“I’m not leaving for three more nights” Alex offers, “So I’m expecting a whirlwind romance.”  
“I can probably manage that” Peter grins, “Especially if by romance you mean anything that isn’t manual labour.”   
“I hear _Sister Act_ is quite the riot.”   
Peter’s face indicates that Alex is not nearly as funny as he thinks he is.  
“Isn’t _Magic Flute_ on?”   
Peter sprains an eye rolling it.  
“C’mon Peter, you love the idea of someone blowing away enthusiastically enough to transport the audience to a magical place.”   
Peter coughs, no longer worried about his eye.  
“Fingering that piece of wood till it is fairly erupting with pleasure.”  
Peter finishes his wine, smirking a little, encouraging.   
“Tonguing away-”  
“Alex?”  
“Mmm?”  
“Perhaps this is a conversation better had elsewhere?”  
“Oh if you’ve a better idea for our next date” Alex stands, unfolding himself gracefully and apparently very much enjoying watching Peter do the same. Peter can’t recall him being this physically affectionate with previous partners but perhaps that was merely a function of a new relationship, transitioning from friendship, it having been some time. It is pleasant for now, anyway.   
It is even more pleasant later, with Alex’s long legs tangled in his, his body relaxed and warm, draped against his back like Peter might slip out in the night or need protection from unknown assailants.   
Peter slides his fingers through Alex’s, settles their joined hands more comfortably against his chest, and relishes the feeling of togetherness.


	2. Spring, Acton Scott Farm

In a way things don’t change at all when Peter returns to the farm and to Alex. In another, things change rather a lot. They’ve always been affectionate, but now things step up a notch. Peter doesn’t worry any more about how much he touches Alex while ‘helping’ him down from the loft. Alex apparently feels no compunction following up unfortunate slips of hay or other detritus onto Peter with a thorough examination. They keep things the same for the cameras though; only Ruth is told and she merely says “Thank goodness for that” with a hug for them both.

It’s notionally spring by the time Alex has obtained double sheets for their single beds and made them a more couple-y room. Being known well enough in the town and being unwilling to attempt dissembling, it had had to wait until he could sneak further afield. Nobody else ever goes into the bedrooms of their little cottage, so it’s only Ruth’s mild, “Anything too messy and I expect you to clean it yourselves” and a knowing laugh that they have to deal with.   
Alex flushes and Peter leers, hugging the slighter man from behind and rubbing his beard against Alex’s neck while reassuring Ruth, “We leave the messy stuff for outside thanks. The fields are quiet this time of year, especially out the back.”  
“I guess some good protein won’t hurt the wheat too much” she laughs back, eyes soft at the two of them cuddling in her kitchen, at home with each other and the space.

***

Despite the double bed, Alex still wakes cold sometimes. Peter is a warm sleeper, sprawling considerately away from his partner and not-quite-snoring towards the wall. Alex attempts to unseize his muscles and shimmy closer without bringing on another spasm. Intellectually he knows Peter wouldn’t mind being rearranged to act as a heat pack for his back, but emotionally it seems churlish and besides, Peter is literally carrying the farm these days as Alex struggles to pull his weight. He needs his sleep. Every time Alex tries to broach the subject he gets a gentle telling-off, hastily-wiped hands cradling his jaw in reassurance, offers to massage the injury.

He lies there now and as time ticks by it seems easier and easier to burrow close. At some point he must doze off because when he wakes up there’s a familiar weight behind him, familiar arms around him, familiar deep breathing near his ear. His back, denied the chance to properly spasm while surrounded by lovely heat, grouchily subsides to a light twitch and gives it up for a bad job. Alex threads his fingers through Peter’s and wakes refreshed hours later.

***

Early spring is a good time for getting to know each other anew; they aren’t too busy so there’s plenty of time to explore each other in amongst the day trips to mines and streams and the other dozen locations that simply must be filmed at. When they go trotting down the road on their little cart, Peter watches the sure lines of Alex as he drives and feels heavily inclined to sing or at least to never stop watching. Ruth does a good job of distracting him for the camera though, and Alex himself joins in their gentle banter as they dutifully drive down the road-side cameras.   
Filming complete they continue their journey, except the other two occasionally run alongside or lean dangerously out to pick some likely looking apples.

“Peckish, Peter?” Alex enquires, laughing at the hat full of apples in Peter’s lap.  
“I hear he’s been working up quite the appetite” Ruth offers, voice mild as milk, eyes sparkling like fire. “Needs all the sustenance he can get, poor man.”  
Peter flushes, rubbing his jaw – freshly shaved for the cameras.   
“I always thought it was because he was scared of doctors.” Alex muses  
“An apple a day keeps the doctor away” she sing-songs, laughing at nothing more than the absurdity of the afternoon.   
“I haven’t seen a doctor for months” Alex grouches gently, “So it must be working. Didn’t know you had such powers, Peter.”  
“Don’t want spoilers for the new season” Peter replies, indistinctly, around a mouthful. He and Alex have been talking a lot about Dr Who lately. Alex is significantly more fannish than Peter.   
“An apple a day keeps anyone at bay if you throw it hard enough” Ruth adds, not interested in Dr Who at all.   
Peter laughs, hefting his empty core. “Anyone you want kept away, Alex? I’ll send them packing!” He half goes to stand up. Ruth snatches at him and Alex slows the horses and reaches for Peter as they approach the bend in one breathless panic.   
Peter – who had no intention of standing upright on a moving vehicle unless it was for farming purposes – is bemused and returns immediately to his seat.   
The horses stop and Alex glowers behind him.   
  


“I’m sorry?” Peter offers, sincere and wisely accepting now is not the time to offer a well-reasoned argument.   
“Don’t do it again” Is all Alex says. He is curt with his ‘walk on’ to the horses, though, and when Peter tosses his core out and runs a questioning finger down Alex’s thigh, it takes a moment before he accepts the comfort of Peter sitting directly behind him, hand on his knee. It is some time more till the desire to throttle the man to keep him safe is gone and he can relax again.

***

They hunted pheasant yesterday. Neither man is particularly squeamish – it comes with the job – but hours of fagging up and down scaring birds while other people shoot at them has wearied them slightly. Ruth’s comments about people going early to bed and her amused eyebrow were greeted with yawns after Peter jerked awake barely in time to rescue his stew from his face. Alex had managed to get through dinner on willpower alone, had eased into Peter’s tall chair with the air of a man who is weary and uncomfortable. Ruth’s febrile imagination was the only place anything exciting was happening last night.   
But now, Peter wakes to a warm octopus in his bed, nuzzling under his jaw, leg insinuated between his own. It’s not a bad way to wake up, when all’s said and done, and if it weren’t for the constant natter of _chores, tasks, things to do_ at the back of his head he’d happily stay in bed all morning. He concedes to wait until he can hear Ruth and Mark clattering about in the dim grey dawn before setting to waking Alex.

  
On being dragged from his sleep and told to get out into the dismal drear, Alex pouts quite delectably and attempts to distract Peter with a more leisurely start to the morning. Peter would have to be completely mad before he refused such an offering and in the end they stay in bed a little longer than they really should, but not so long that a hasty scramble into clothes and to the yard can’t catch them up.

Peter is very glad that they’re only recreating the Victorian era.

Recreation or not, there’s chores to be done. For a moment, mid-muck, he watches Alex with the horses. Alex has a certain way of getting exactly what he wants out of the animals, a certain assurance that is sometimes lacking in their other tasks. Sometimes, Peter misses the carefree Alex, before he fell off the barn roof, before he put his back out, before he tested his limits and found them changed.   
Their eyes meet over Clumper; Peter returns to the least exciting job on the farm with a lightness in his heart.

It’s another early spring morning, not quite spring enough to have to race the sun with all their tasks, but not wintery enough to despair, either. Peter is looking forward to heading out over the next couple of days, looking in on local specialists and learning more skills. Today is another filming day though (hence the mucking) and it will mostly be spent looking at the yard. Ruth, who spends a lot of time in the kitchen for someone who is supposed to be in charge of their chickens, is a little dismissive of how much interest this segment will generate.   
“You spent two hours scrubbing chamber pots the other day” Alex points out in his most reasonable voice.  
“It’s a necessary part of every day life” Ruther retorts, briskly shaking and beating and scrubbing.  
“We’re not using chamber pots”   
“We would be if we were doing it properly. It’s different for a man, anyway.”  
“Some of the women’s work is surprisingly physical” Alex acknowledges, meaning only to agree but marring the meaning with a tired slur and jaw-cracking yawn. Perhaps not as awake as he thought.  
“Perhaps” Peter interrupts, before their friendly banter can descend of its own accord, “Now we’ve all those apples and some of that beetroot, you could show Mark how the Victorians deal with preserves?”  
Accepting the interruption and implicit apology, Ruth hands Alex her rake and disappears with a cheerful wave of the fingers.

“I can fight my own battles” Alex grunts, hands still gentle on Clumper but eyes not quite matching.   
Peter shrugs, setting to laying out the equipment they’d use that day.   
“I know, but Ruth isn’t a battle. She’s on our side, and she’ll be there to let us know if anyone turns up unexpectedly.”   
“There go all my hopes of catching you in your pants on camera.”  
“Your camera maybe. The production team certainly not.” Peter blushes, fumbling the rope and nearly dropping it.   
Alex’s smirk does not assist matters.   
“Maybe we can imagine that later?”  
“I’d rather imagine it now and do something later.” Alex winks.  
The rope does drop that time, but Peter scoops it up and is giving a creditable imitation of a man in full possession of his wits when the film crew roll up shortly after.

Alex rolls his eyes and frets over Clumper, casting baleful glances at Peter as the Vet talks equine care.

***

It might be notionally spring, but the weather has dipped again. Peter and Alex have been busy with the animals (most due any week now), and Ruth has been conducting further experiments with the plentiful supply of filthy shirts Peter has thoughtfully provided.

“I’ll not be making you a birthday cake” she threatens, as he hands over one that is thoughtlessly streaked with mud and miscellaneous coal filth, “only men who don’t make a mess tumbling about the place get cake.”  
“It’s cause he always tumbles onto _me._ ” Peter explains helpfully, eyeing the remains of her last cake through the door, “I try Ruth, I promise.”  
She just laughs, setting them all to soaking in various potions, and shaking her head. “I nearly believe you, but you were just as mucky last year so don’t go dragging his good name through the mud.”  
“He’s dragging my shirt through the mud” but Peter’s just making empty banter, and Ruth can tell.   
She nods and allows him a slice of cake. “Just eat it outside and don’t wipe your hands on your clothes” She yells after him, wondering if all boys are this hard work and thankful again for her two girls. She can hear Peter’s small noises of delight fading as he strides out to finish whatever the latest task is. 

Ruth heads to the larder that evening, to work through the earliest spring hedge harvest – inside work she can safely put off to do in the lamplight – when she hears Alex come in. He’s stepping a little unevenly still, she thinks critically, listening to him stripping down to his shirt and putting the kettle on.

Usually the boys come in together, especially if one has been filming, but this is the third day in a row Alex has come in first, alone. She can partially see him through the half-shut door, spies his guilty glance around, winces as he lowers himself to lie on the table, boots dangling. She returns to her work, biting her lower lip and thinking. The steady drizzle on the roof, the creaking of the building, the _plink plink_ of fresh fruit are the only sounds she hears for a long time, but the next time she checks on him he’s lying more easily, relaxed into the hard wood rather than taught and clearly hurting. His back – better after some core work, better in the warmth of summer – is clearly objecting to his uneven gait and the last few nights of cold. They have a superstition of not sharing a bed when the crew are turning up early or staying over; she’d not mind one way or the other if she hadn’t just learnt how bad his back clearly was, how much it must pain him.

Ruth resolves to make him a warmed brick for his bed until the crew leave, to look into red flannel and ointments.

As soon as the kettle boils though he is up puttering around, as competent making tea as she could wish. She wonders if it is for three but he gets only two cups out, which makes sense since she is ostensibly busy and he and Peter are just coming in for a break prior to the three of them undertaking evening chores. When she next looks, pausing after measuring the sugar, Alex is in Peter’s chair, one cup in his hand and the other on the table, eyes half-closed and lips gently parted.

  
They haven’t a matched set of chairs and, as the largest, Peter’s gravitated to the biggest of their motley collection. The uncompromising wood and easy angle of the hips didn’t make Alex wince like he had when seated on his usual chair the night before, Ruth guiltily remembers now. Poor man should probably be taking it easier than he was.

“Tea’s up” the ‘poor man’ murmurs as Peter came in.  
“Ta”  
There’s the normal settling down noises then a pause which Ruth correctly interprets as a kiss before Alex’s familiar voice starts on quietly reading the book of the farm, talking lambing. She peaks out, to see Peter on the stool against Alex’s leg, leaning in and having his hair petted while he darned one of Alex’s socks. The domesticity is so raw, so tender, that Ruth wishes for a camera to catch it in case her traitorous memory forgets what this felt like.

It reminds her of home.

***

“Just as well you read us all that stuff” Peter mutters, stretched out next to Alex and waiting for lambing to start, “Think it’ll be any good?”  
“There’s always the vet if we need her.”  
“That’d be one for the cameras.” Peter grins, a flash of teeth in the gloom, amused. “Victorian Farm, now with less cruelty and more professional female vets.”  
“Victorian Suffragette Farm” Alex agrees, huffing a laugh at the anachronism, “Some purists would have a thing or two to say about that.”  
“Imagine Ruth though. She’d soon put us in our places.”  
“I don’t believe anybody could put you in your place. You’d just placidly carry on doing what you know is right.” Alex gropes under the hay for Peter’s hand, their movements hidden from the crew’s return.

The crew are off fiddling with lighting rigs and filming angles, so it nearly does feel like they are alone waiting for their lambing to start. The paper chess set lies between them in their abandoned-in-the-middle-of-a-field shelter. Peter huffs an abashed laugh, squeezing the chilled hand thankfully. “I’d not mind the right person trying.” He admits, half-turning his head. Alex, chuckling silently, rolls onto his side without relinquishing Peter’s hand at all.   
“Well if we’re not doing Suffragette Farm I guess that leaves you with me.” He quips, “So I hope you like being talked to like a horse and sent off to do all the heavy lifting.”   
“Dunno if the tack fits.”  
“I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.” Further discussion is paused by the return of the crew. They slip to a less risqué banter, but Alex stays up on one elbow. He’s comfortable, and Peter is comfortably warm.

They’re discussing names – Peter wants them one syllable alphabetical to indicate age and generation, Alex worries this is unwieldly after three generations and is unable to think past ‘Caroline’ – when it suddenly comes to a head and the real work begins. They’ve seen plenty of other animals born, of course, but this is their time to take the lead (despite the BBC-mandated vet loitering in the background). Alex can’t help meeting Peter’s eyes once the twins are safely with their mother. The miracle of childbirth is still a miracle even if it’s a sheep. Peter looks remarkably touched, doting on the new arrivals like a proud Grandfather.

When they eventually get to bed, it’s very early and they reek of sheep. Both creak and sigh as they lie flat on the mattresses, trusting the posture will restore their aching muscles quickly. Into the darkness, still too excited to sleep just yet, Peter hesitantly rumbles, “Have you thought about kids?”  
Alex isn’t exactly surprised; Peter is not an inscrutable man. “Mmm but not for a while.”  
“Marcell?”  
“Leanne. She was eager and of course it’s easier…” He can’t think of a nice way to say ‘when all the biology is already involved in the relationship’.   
“What happened?”   
“We broke up.”  
Peter huffs a laugh, shifting to regard his partner, a silver-study in the moonlight. “Cheeky. With the kids.”  
“I wasn’t ready then.” The unspoken inference hangs in the air for a moment. “I think it’s the right people and the right time. The time was right for her but that was it.”   
“You’d be a good Dad I reckon. For what it’s worth.”  
“Thanks” Alex regards him, sincere and searching at once, “So would you.” Then, to break the tension, which is more than he can bear, “Probably make quite cute kids, too, get away with bloody murder. Curls in a boy, ringlets in a girl.”  
“Curly locks curly locks?”  
“Wilt thou be mine?” Alex bats his eyelashes, weariness and the intimate setting making him giddy but sincere.  
“Always. So long as I don’t have to sit around sewing daintily.”   
Alex chuckles, opening his arms. “You do whatever makes you happy.”

Despite the tenderness of their embrace the late nights swiftly overwhelm them. Alex dreams of chubby-cheeked boys and ringleted girls running around with Peter. Peter dreams of Alex, aged yet the same, sitting in his flat doted on by a white-haired Peter, a retired sheepdog, and an earnest boy with his father’s narrow features and determined jaw.


	3. Summer, Acton Scott Farm

“I’m worried about Alex. You will talk with him, won’t you?”  
“Worried why?” Peter frowns, leaning on the leather that’s laid over his knees, visibly confused  
“Well the weather isn’t getting any better, and you know how wrapped up he is in the hay harvest.”   
“I’m also pretty interested in the hay harvest” Peter rejoins mildly, returning to oiling the leather with practiced movements. “Did you talk with Alex like this about the piglets?” He adds, sensing intrusion on their happy bubble.  
“Of course not. I trust Alex to listen if something bothers you.”  
“You don’t trust me?” The intrusion is sharp, stabbing. He never thought Ruth wouldn’t trust him, trust the one she called dull, reliable, sensible Peter.   
Above him, Ruth sighs to her toes, a small chilly hand resting over his and effectively pausing his work.   
“I do trust you, Peter. I worry too. We know you’ll ask for help; Alex doesn’t have to listen like you do with him. You’re very good at verbalising things.” When he looks up she’s worrying away at her bottom lip. _Nervous_ he thinks, and _determined_ and he realises anew that here is a powerful ally if only he’ll stop being so prickly and awkward and actually let her help. So he turns his hand over to grasp hers and smiles weakly, “Sorry. Course I will.” And if he doesn’t mention his own concerns to her, well, he’ll share them with Alex if he has to. The man’s a lot less highly strung than outsiders might think.   
“I don’t want to intrude” Ruth reminds him blandly, as though she’s never even thought about bounding into every passing adventure, “You know that Peter.”  
“I know. Thanks Ruth.” She retrieves her hand and he returns to cleaning the tack, rubbing at the leather as the shadows swallow the sky completely, only the distant light pollution to mar the spread of the Milky Way.

“Alright Peter?” Alex calls, half an hour later, loping easily up the path with various impedimenta flung over his shoulders.   
“Alright” Peter returns, their voices breaking the warm air previous filled only with the sounds of hundreds of animals advertising their various attractions. “How’s it looking?”  
“Damp.” Alex sighs, setting down his load and beginning to replace tools where they belong along the back of the building. Peter, remaining near the door, can hear him moving purposefully around, and suddenly realises that it won’t be like this when they’re in London, not at all. He isn’t sure what might make Alex bustle away in the big city but he can’t imagine it will satisfy their souls quite the same as being a farmer.   
“Why the long face?” Alex enquires when he returns, plopping next to Peter and picking up some work to do. Peter isn’t aware he’s staring until Alex nudges him and repeats the question. “Got something on my mug?”   
“Handsome as ever” Peter reassures him, then blushes, then moans a little as Alex – pleased as punch – snuggles in for a kiss. They smile quite soppily at each other for a moment. Peter leans into Alex’s shoulder a little then and they continue their work, looking out over the fields and listening to the animals and the vague noises of Ruth working some sort of culinary magic.

  
“After this year I’ve almost forgotten how to cook” Alex admits, even though both of them have been known to do their turns over the range or on the hot plate at their sleeping cottage.   
“I hear there’s a thing called takeaways that allow men to survive without the hassle of keeping a cook.” Peter returns drily.   
“I refuse to be the sort of couple that survives entirely on takeaways” Alex retorts, “There’s nothing for it. We’ll have to stay here with Ruth until neither of us burns the porridge.”  
Peter laughs, as Alex knew he would, “That was one time!” He whinges, “You burn the toast at least once a week.”  
“I only cook toast when you’re on table-setting duty, and that’s more than enough distraction for me without worrying about your blasted toast.”  
“Blasted is about right. Smaug could do a better job.” But he’s flushing again, and they’re back to looking like love-struck fools.   
“Smaug has had his whole life to practice using fire.” With a final wrench Alex finishes, and he celebrates with Peter until Ruth bangs the gong for supper. Peter concludes that wrecked, with a side of stubble rash, is an excellent look on Alex, but he isn’t silly enough to say so. The question of the hay remains unspoken.

The next morning it is still dreary. Alex tries very hard not to sigh and mope, to keep busy and not waste energy on things he cannot influence. He’s almost run out of cliches by lunch time, but the weather slowly shifts a little so he needn’t rely on them quite as much now. They’re preparing to move the sheep in for shearing so he and Peter are busy enough that he has a double-talisman against the growing dread their harvest will fail.   
“I’m sorry about the piglet” He tells Peter again, as they take a short break in the yard. Peter has leant over the sty to scritch the remaining animals’ backs, looking as relaxed as Alex could wish.  
“Me too” they stare out at the pigs for a while. The pigs, realising there’s nothing to be had but scritches, generally decide to return to their busy piggy lives. “There’s nothing we could’ve done but it still feels my fault. Y’know?”   
Alex does know. He glances up and to the right – towards the steadily dampening hay – and grunts.   
“Even miss the Tamworths. They were good pigs.” Peter huffs a laugh, “Tasted good, too.”  
“I’m looking forward to the bacon” Alex admits, nudging Peter’s shoulder, “It’s not rational, is it?”  
Without thinking, Peter replies, “Grief never is.” Then he seems to realise what he’s said and blinks at Alex, confused. But Alex suddenly has a name for the stone in the pit of his stomach, and just jerks his head up and down a couple times. It doesn’t really help, of course, but his shoulders drop a little and he stands a little taller nonetheless, because knowing this is how the brain works is reassuring. He isn’t going crazy, he’s just grieving.   
“You alright?” Peter turns, one arm braced against the sty they built together, looking across at Alex. His blue eyes are earnest, but still breathtakingly striking.   
“Yeah. You?”  
Peter nods, long lashes sweeping up and down, a small smile settling on the left corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Come on.”

***

“Nothing ever seems to go right” Alex laments to the camera. His back was sore again last night, left alone with only a hot water bottle to soothe it, breakfast was rushed – only one cup of tea – and he’s been charging up and down the roads hunting sheep in boots that fit fine yesterday but are now rubbing in approximately a hundred different spots. The director gives him a sunny thumbs-up, sure she has a very useable snippet. Alex grunts and turns away. It’s for the TV, of course, but somewhere along the way it’s got awfully real and he’ll be damned if the stupid sheep will outwit the humans.

Peter, huffing up a long steady hill, spares a thought for the locals roped in to give some shearing advice. This part of it was never the plan, getting them to run up and down hills hunting sheep which seem to have both multiplied and been doing some sort of speed training. He’d always thought sheep moved as a herd, but these ones seem to have developed individual instinct. Spying a mother and lambs he manages to get behind them, herding them towards the farm. You’d think the silly animals had never been near the yard before, the way they seem determined to ignore it.

Eventually all the sheep are penned, separated, the shears are ready to go. Peter takes one look at Alex, who is standing awfully still and turning at just the neck, and steps smoothly to the crank. “Do you want me-?”  
“I’ll get it started” Peter grins, “Let you learn a bit more about shearing. It’s not like the other times we’ve done it.” Alex, who like all of them has seen plenty of shearing paraphernalia in local museums, isn’t too concerned about the theory of shearing. It turns out the practical side of it is trickier than expected. It’s quite fun though, once he relaxes into it a little. The chance to tell Peter to give him some power sets them all laughing. Peter takes it one step further by making some obscene sounds once he’s on the bike, hamming it up for their general merriment. Alex has to stop shearing for a moment he’s laughing so hard.

Of course it takes them all day, much longer than it should, but then again the Victorians didn’t exactly abide by modern health and safety rules, or have to take mandated breaks, and presumably their sub-twenty minute sheep shearing time didn’t allow for fits of giggles and learning the trade. They’re all still laughing by the end though, and the others go away well pleased with their chance of fame and an easy day’s work for good pay.

Peter, incorrigible, is on the bed when Alex comes upstairs. He is ‘resting’. “I can still feel that bike” He mutters, “Up and down, rattle rattle.”   
“That sounds terrible” Alex retorts, deadpan, “You’d better make sure all those vibrations don’t leave you stiff and aching.”  
“I’ve been stretching” Peter informs him, admiring the growing blush on Alex’s cheeks, “Y’know. For the stiffness.”  
“I’m glad to hear it. It would be awful to think of you bouncing around the place hurting yourself.” Peter knows he’s for it when Alex continues, lower and more darkly, “Quite the fun ride, is that how you described it?” and piles up the pillows so he can brace himself against the metal bedstead.

***

Peter returns from his spot of filming with a new-old cricket bat, a bag full of cricket whites for them, and a smart new shave. He grumbles good-naturedly at the tightness of the trousers, and has nowhere to hide his blushes when Alex calmly informs him and the audience that he looks quite dashing with the bare skin.   
(Later, when watching the final cut through, this has been replaced with only Peter’s reply, carefree and nonchalant when shown out of context.)

While Ruth frets about the food, and Alex chats politely with Mr Acton Sr, Peter easily loses himself in the team’s banter. They are all more or less familiar, and remarkably relaxed about their match being seconded by Aunty Beeb. Laughingly, Peter admits he would normally offer to bowl but he doubts the integrity of his trousers. “What about Mr Langlands?” the Captain asks, glancing over to Alex’s lean frame bending to pat the spaniel sprawled at Mr Acton’s aristocratic feet.  
“Alex? Couldn’t hit the side of a barn” Peter returns easily, and not entirely accurately, “Too many arms and legs has our Alex.”  
“It’s just for some shots” the lurking director reminds Peter. “No need to get too involved.”  
“I’m not getting too involved, am I chaps?” Peter enquires, generally. “Just explaining to the team that our involvement is somewhat curtailed by some sartorial difficulties.” He regards her sternly. “If I split these trousers, you’ll have to take it up with costuming. You know they’re too tight.”  
“Fetching though” She replies, raising an immaculate eyebrow, “It’s about time audiences see you in something other than that mucky old shirt.”  
“That’s hardly fair! Alex is always in a mucky old shirt and his trousers fit.”  
She regards the audience of Acton Scott Village and subsides, muttering something about giving him more opportunities to dress up in future.   
“Let’s get this show on the road then” Peter beams, well used to the director’s strong opinions, “Sooner we get out of your hair sooner you can get to beating the visitors.”

Of course his trousers split, right when he’s trying to avoid being run out. The general hilarity at least makes the ball go wide and he is spared the ultimate indignity. Alex’s teasing comments about muscular beasts of burden splitting their clothes don’t help the overall fit of the beleaguered trousers, but at least he only says them quietly over a cuppa once they’re inevitably bowled out for a paltry number of runs.

Alex actually hits a four, which is something of a minor miracle and redeems their efforts a little. Peter disgusts the director by ruining the moment with a shouted “Couldn’t even make it a six?”, which makes Alex reply with a traditional salute and, “I’d like to see you do any better” that somehow descends to Peter threatening to moon the field.

They retire for tea and to watch the rest of the batting. When it is time to field, the Village is most accommodating even though the cameras are long gone. Peter, back in his own trousers, but retaining the traditional shirt, hair still slightly tamed by the makeup lady, is perfectly happy to be slotted in to the outfield for a few overs. Alex makes a liar out of him by bowling one of the visitors out for a duck, but is too aware that the Village isn’t really short any players and returns to Ruth and the shade of the trees after only a couple overs.

As they’re walking back in the golden light, Peter swinging the bat occasionally, Alex smiles over at him. It’s a warm smile, fond, spreading round the edges and softening his sharp amber eyes. Peter grins back, mimes hitting a six, and slings the bat back over his shoulder. “Alright Alex?”  
“Alright” Ruth is off for the evening, so Alex’s glance shows him only an empty lane, “You do have a handsome face you know? You’d make a good pirate. Or a rascal, I know how seasick you get.”  
“You really know how to make a guy feel special, don’t you?” Peter laughs, gently bopping him on the head with the flat side of the bat, “First I’m your beast of burden, now I’m your pirate?”  
“I can’t help it if I like my men all brawn and beard. Just be thankful you’re not cursed with glasses or anything.”  
Peter laughs again, nudging his partner off balance just so he can steady him. “I’ve got news for you. Ginn’s have terrible eyesight. Always have. One day you’ll come home and I’ll be squinting through coke-bottles at some picture book, unable of course to understand reading actual words, and I’ll be wizened and flabby and weak.”  
“You’re already flabby. And you’re shorter than me. I don’t know why I’m with you, I really don’t.”  
Chuckling, they walk on in silence for about ten paces. A summer lark sprinkles the air with the finest music.   
“Oh you love me really.” Peter concludes, grinning over at Alex. The lark stops.   
Alex turns towards it, calling hopefully, “Keep going!” Perhaps unsurprisingly, this does not encourage the bird to continue. “If music be the food of love, then we’re awfully hard up.” He concludes, nudging Peter’s shoulder. “Unless you want me to sing.” He adds.  
“Alex, in the Amazonian rain forests there are tribes of Indians as yet untouched by civilisation who have developed a stronger grasp of popular Western songs than you.”

Laughingly, they wander home through the sunbeams.

***

Of course the hay doesn’t harvest. Peter spends a lot of time fretting, Ruth’s words running through his head. Ruth spends a lot of time fretting, enticing Alex to eat with ever more outlandish claims of period food. Alex himself, after a long sigh at the way of the world, does not fret at all. It is as though, now the blow has struck, he realises there’s nothing for it but to pick himself up and carry on. Peter feels obscurely like he should apologise, but since he didn’t cause the harvest to fail and he can’t control the weather, he instead decides that a better way of cheering Alex up is a new project in the walled garden, and inventing new ways of presenting the same gift the night of his Birthday. By the time the strip of fabric is tied into a bow around the key to his flat and attached to the front of the book – actually a present from a second hand book store that does online orders, not a prop from the studio – the bow has many memorable connotations.   
“The bow is just for show” He tells Alex, grinning and slyly indicating Alex should keep the bow for further examination later. Alex laughs, flicking his gaze up like he isn’t quite sure how he got this lucky, and Peter yet again finds himself determined to keep this thing between them working.

Later, left alone in the garden while Brian-the-bee-man is prepped by the crew, Peter helps out tying Alex’s sleeves shut and smiles up at him. “Don’t lose the bow now.”  
“I don’t intend to” Alex retrieves it from his pocket, twisting it in his nimble fingers until the key appears, returning the smile hopefully. “What’s this?”  
“Well we can’t stay here forever” Peter returns evenly, “Much though you’d like to.”  
“Oh of course. You’re having a terrible time.”  
“Someone told me to ‘whoa’ the other day” Peter grumbles, “ _And_ called me a beast of burden.”  
“But Peter, you _are_ a beast.” Tucking the key – and fabric – away securely, Alex sparkles in the sunlight and at his own wit, “A magnificent beast, finely formed, well muscled, good at following direction, nicely groomed…well. Only when you’re showing off to the local cricket team.”  
“I was not showing off” Peter is half-laughing, half-blushing, “I was ensuring we were taken seriously.”  
“You’ve never taken anything seriously in your life.” Ducking down Alex presses the swiftest kiss to the corner of Peter’s mouth, opening his own to say something further and, with the impeccably poor timing they’ve come to associate with directorial edicts, is called away to discuss bees. Luckily he loves bees, but not quite as much as Peter. “Talk tonight” He promises, striding off.   
Peter grins, watching him go for a moment before returning to the walled garden. In truth, the garden is well-maintained and not in need of more than a weed and a few new seedlings. It will make for a solid piece on walled gardens, but not for anything excessively exciting. The walls are well designed and situated, but are no more or less special than for any other garden. They certainly aren’t heated like the ones he saw once at Dunmore House. Peter wonders if this segment will make the final cut. As he works he drafts a few ideas about walled gardens and their economic impact for the book, though he strongly suspects they won’t make it past some scribbles in a notebook.

Ruth leads the laughter that evening when Alex re-tells the story of the bees and his ‘meat and two veg’. Amply aided by cider, the re-telling is exuberant and hilarious, till even Alex is laughing too hard to continue miming the resultant awkwardness that was no doubt captured in glorious technicolour.

“I wasn’t stung” He assures Peter that night, laying the key in the box he uses for treasures, “Though I think that’s more good luck than anything.”  
“I’d better check” Peter returns, adopting a suitably medical tone, “Just in case there’s any damage. Bend over and cough.”  
“I’m _fairly_ sure that’s not how it goes”


	4. Autumn, London

They successfully harvest the wheat; Peter is pleased as punch when he does his piece for the cameras. Ruth is pleased as punch to expound on Victorian curry. Alex is sure he can feel the key in his treasure box getting heavier as the days crawl on; he’s happy about the wheat too.

  


The boys talk about it on the way back from the festival, Ruth knows. She bustles on ahead and smiles to herself, already imagining the house warming. They’re adorable together, which is not the sort of word you normally use for two grown men but they don’t need to know. In her mind they end up teaching and living in some hidden cottage with space for Alex’s precious bees and Peter’s enthusiasm for any new project. No doubt he’ll be back to Egypt as soon as he can get away, no matter Alex’s fretting about pyramid pirates and pistols and possible dangers. If she knows her boys, they’ll work it all out and be back for another round of period farming next year, and the year after. Because no matter their shared history in London and the work it provides, Ruth can’t see it as a permanent home. Alex is too fond of pottering about on some obscure piece of historical crafting, Peter too fond of traipsing off to a far-flung place (she blames his travelling childhood), for them to find much relaxation in an ever-changing population like London.   
_Enough gossip_ she chides herself, in what sounds remarkably like Mark’s voice _There’ll be time enough for that once the dinner is on_. She will be sad to go, of course, and anticipates a reverse culture shock, but it will be grand to have that voice at her shoulder instead of in her mind. _Don’t be daft woman. Enjoy the range while you have it._ Humming, Ruth obeys.

  


“Didn’t join in the singing, Alex?”  
“Didn’t join in the dancing, Peter?”   
Peter chuckles, miming falling over his own feet. “I thought I’d spare the Health and Safety team some more work.”   
“Me too. You know your ears’d bleed if I sang.”  
“You’re not that bad. I might just throw up a little. Or stab you with a pitchfork.”  
“Or feed me more cider.”  
“You have an unhealthy obsession with that cider.” Like a maiden Aunt, Peter pinches Alex’s cheeks, mimicking the action of the May Day celebrations when Alex had confided his deep appreciation for the drink with cheeks redder than the apples they had crushed.   
Alex responds with a non-verbal suggestion as to what Peter could do with that pitchfork. Peter responds with an attempt to sing like Alex does, which startles several birds and two cats roaming the lane; the animals flee with much caterwauling. Peter, startled, steps sideways into Alex, who is equally startled and ends up on the ground, Peter on top, laughing merrily.   
“Get _up_ Peter, you great lump” Alex instructs, playfully swatting Peter’s posterior with a slightly proprietary hand.   
“I’m getting up” that man returns, with a truly obscene roll of the hips. Still laughing, Alex pushes and pulls and nudges until they’re both more or less upright and presentable. Peter looks entirely unperturbed but is nevertheless thankful there’s not cameras around. Alex makes the sort of noise Peter associates with a perfectly cooked steak, and smirks. “Come along Peter.”  
“I don’t recall you being this filthy” Peter mutters, but he obediently follows. His obedience is short lived as soon he is singing _thus the farmer sows his seed_ , and encouraging Alex to dance down the road.

  


They must be making quite the racket because Ruth is standing at the door of the cottage to watch, and she joins in the song as soon as they’re close enough to hear her. Peter is striding along singing merrily, Alex tripping along with some exceedingly tidy steps and the occasional use of his mandolin so Ruth comes down to the gate to partner with him, the two of them dancing around on their small garden plot like mad people. Peter only stops singing when he’s run through the all the verses he can think of twice and is laughing too hard to continue. Ruth subsides panting into the bench, fanning herself with her apron, but Alex gives Peter a look like he’s solely responsible for their successful wheat, then grabs the slop bucket and heads off to feed the pigs, their last remaining stock. Peter, still laughing, subsides next to Ruth.

  


“So you’re moving in together?” Ruth sees no point in beating around the bush.  
Peter groans theatrically, pulls his hat over his face, slumps, and groans again. “It’s a matter of some debate” He admits. “Do you have any _idea_ how much cra- how many artefacts we’ve accumulated between us?”  
“Enough to fill a moderate country cottage I should imagine.”  
Peter removes the hat enough to squint at Ruth, looking a little betrayed.  
“No, it’s just…” Ruth regards him as an Aunt might her favoured Nephew, “You’ve different areas of focus. I should think that if one of you can mostly work at home then when you’re away he’ll be much happier waiting, and when you’re back the chances of him being physically there are much greater. You’ll still need to entice him out of whatever weaving or carving rabbit-hole he’s fallen into but at least he’ll be around.”   
“But our work’s in London.”  
“I’m not suggesting you go and live on the Outer Hebrides Peter. If you’re close-ish to a train line then you can be in London in an hour or so I’m sure.”   
Peter regards her with a look of awe. “Do you know” He says, “If all women were as sensible as you, I’d be a lot more attracted to them.”  
She laughs, swatting at him and flapping her apron. “Get on with you. As if you would.”  
“I might.” He laughs back, “It’s a topping suggestion and you cook awfully well.”  
“Yes. Well. That’s what my husband says too” She winks, stretching out her legs, “And dinner’s just keeping warm on the stove so you needn’t keep wheedling me for it.” He covers an abashed blush with a kiss to her forehead, stepping over her legs to go off and prepare for dinner.   
  


***

  


Over the next couple of days, Peter mulls. He knows Alex does too, as they pack up, and scribble incomprehensible notes in notebooks, and let Ruth shoo them into cleaning whatever she orders must be cleaned next. What to say in the final reflection fades into insignificance when considering where to go when they leave, and besides there’s the script writers to polish up his clumsy attempt at words. Alex seems to be less sanguine about trusting to the writers, and Peter can almost hear him thinking through the right words as they sweep and carry and scrub.   
When he hears the way Alex has woven everything together, blandly covered with his usual enthusiasm for manual labour, he wishes he’d spent a little longer on his own words. “Don’t be ridiculous” Alex tells him, apparently able to read his mind, “I wish I could give you more than words.”

  


It’s a rush to the end, as moving always is, but then there is just the steady clomping of hooves, the steady step of hobnailed boots alongside, and Ruth waving at the cottage and sitting unusually still. Peter, for his part, fingers the fine-woven wool he wears and looks out to where the remainder of the working farm still harbours sheep and, somewhere, pigs. He knows there’s a chance they’ll be back next year but for now it truly feels like Autumn, like the world is settling down to rest. Alex, ahead, walks steadily on, occasionally murmuring to their animals and otherwise just looking like he could walk on forever. He seems literally to have found his stride. Peter huffs at his own joke and then, proud of it, shares it with the others. “Found your stride, Alex?”  
“Resting comfortably, Peter?” Alex grins back, raising one eyebrow in a challenge.   
“Why walk when you can pull me?”   
“I shan’t be able to if you continue eating like that.”   
Peter drops the hand inching towards Ruth’s last ‘save-it-for-the-journey’ pound cake to a more secretive angle. “I’m not eating” He replies, truthfully.  
“Are you ill?”   
“Maybe he’s getting homesick” Ruth suggests, clapping a freezing hand on his forehead, “He’s warm to the touch.”  
“Everyone is warm to the touch when your fingers are ice.” Peter grumbles, using the distraction to extract a slice of cake. Naturally once he has it he needs to eat it without being noticed. Affecting an interested tone of voice he asks, “Alex, these hedgerows…d’you think there’s any near London? That basket weaving looked quite good fun.”  
Alex takes the bait, naturally, because he loves crafts and naturally sourced ingredients and sharing his knowledge. “I think there are a few actually, down in the old royal parks. I heard that some were just left there to grow up over time and then with the interest in traditional methods they’ve been re-tamed. Now I believe RHS has hold of them, but I haven’t done any research. I’m sure the internet will…” He continues, and Ruth interrupts to talk about her Tudor re-enactor friends’ sourcing of various kinds of material, and how in any case the basket wasn’t so much hedgerow sourced as… and Peter lets their eagerness and their words and their passion wash over him, smiling to himself and eating pound cake and absolutely certain there’s nowhere he’d rather be this morning than right here.

His perfidy (Ruth’s word, not Peter’s) is noted when they stop to re-load everything into trucks and cars and change into jeans. “I was thinking of having a nice picnic lunch before we headed home” Ruth (who is still in a dress but a far more modern one) gently chastises him, “I suppose Alex and Mark and I shall and you can sit and watch. Or better yet, finish loading up while we get started.”  
“Yes go on Peter” Alex grins, “After all, you have been sitting around eating all morning” and he pats Peter’s torso with the same air Peter adopted when sent out to buy a ram. “Hmmm” he says, when Peter jiggles the teeniest amount.   
“At least I _can_ pick up all that furniture” Peter retorts.  
“Can you? I don’t believe you”   
It’s only after Peter has manhandled their table down from the dray and onto the truck quite alone that he realises he’s been duped. Alex is equal parts amused and _interested_ so he adopts a bodybuilders pose, winks, and returns to lugging furniture.  
“Are you going to stare all day or come and eat some of this pie?” Ruth calls.   
“Pie!” Peter returns, nearly dropping the rocking chair.  
“Not you! Alex!”  
“I suppose I can eat and look” Alex waves jaunty fingers at Peter and stretches out to Ruth’s left. Mark (who has also provided a modern plastic-backed picnic rug and several thermoses of hot water) sits on her left, the two of them apparently equally comfortable dining on the ground. Alex puts this down to decades of doing so at their re-enactment shindigs, and is slightly jealous. Still, he manages to eat lying on his side, despite that leaving only one hand free, and as Mark and Ruth are more than happy to chat between themselves he does get to eat and look, which is no hardship at all.

Peter doesn’t take long, and is soon sprawled next to Alex, rubbing his neckerchief around his neck in a futile attempt to mop up the perspiration. Alex is particularly fond of that blue tie, and hopes it will remain in Peter’s wardrobe. The shade is perfect.   
  


“I thought we didn’t have any eggs left?” Peter asks indistinctly around a mouthful of pie.  
“Manners” Ruth chides, and then, “These are from the Acton’s. The bacon is the Tamworth, and the peas are mostly from the garden…the walled garden finally comes into its own.”  
“They’re not going to put it in the final cut” Alex mourns, “Despite the importance of walled gardens to the aristocracy, and the likelihood of visitors to places like Acton Scott finding a walled garden.”  
“That’s a shame” Mark is a little soothing, “I imagine they’ve quite the garden there.”  
“Alex found a bee swam” Peter announces, swallowing the sort of mouthful that makes a mother boa constrictor despair.   
“Did you make a beehive?”  
“Yeah but we started with a skep” Alex grins at Mark, two men with a shared interest, swapping tales of creating and learning and doing around mouthfuls of hot coffee and the remainder of the pound cake. Peter and Ruth smile at each other, Ruth placing a small hand on Mark’s knee as he talks, apparently content for once to let someone else do the speaking. Peter nuzzles into Alex’s thigh, warmed by the sun and work and food, soothed by the hand that is soon stroking through his curls. He was wrong earlier. _This_ is exactly where he wants to be.

All good things come to an end though, and with regretful farewells they get into their separate cars and go their separate ways, Ruth having left the remains of the pound cake with the boys “Just in case you can’t make any yourselves.”   
“They do sell them.” Alex reminds her. Peter, clutching the cloth-wrapped cake with reverence and care, shushes him. “Yours are better. If we can’t manage the recipe I’ll give you a call.”  
“Good-oh.” Shutting the door, the Goodman car drives off, Ruth waving as they sweep out of sight. Peter regards Alex a little nervously. It’s the first time in a very long time that they’ve been alone and free to do whatever they want. The first time there’ve been no time restrains on them. He isn’t quite sure what to do. Alex rubs the back of his neck, swallowing hard, and Peter relaxes on realising that neither of them know what to do. “Let’s get started anyway” he says, offering Alex the keys. Alex, who doesn’t own a car, beams and scrambles in. Peter’s the first to admit he hasn’t the fanciest vehicle, but the Audi A3 is nippy and comfortable, and unlike the vehicles he’s driven on digs, fastidiously clear of dirt and trowels and other associated detritus.   
“Home, James” Peter laughs, placing the cake at his feet and gesturing _a la_ Mr Acton.   
“As m’Lord commands” Alex returns, winking, and starting their trip east. “Would Sir like to take the scenic route? Or shall I drive us straight home?”  
The ‘sir’ thing is sparking bits of Peter’s brain that haven’t stirred for several years. “You mean explore Ironbridge and Stratford and things?”  
“Or the Cotswolds and Oxford and Bicester.”  
“Feeling the pull of commercialism?”  
“I’m not entirely convinced I fit these trousers.” Alex grins sheepishly, patting his very baggy jeans with a grubby hand.   
“Yeah lets. There’s plenty of time to run back to modern life. Let’s have a night on the road to ourselves.” They bowl past the turn off to Ironbridge, telling each other stories of the importance of the site. Peter wouldn’t mind going there again after their recent immersion, but there’s time for that later.  
They agree to stay near Banbury.   
Alex admits to a certain guilt that he hasn’t been to Cosford.   
Peter, who was briefly in the ATC, tells him about what it used to be like, laughing at the memory of being marched through the revolving door.   
The M6 offers multiple delights via brown signage and improbable symbols.  
  
“We’re on the wrong side of Birmingham for any of the good bits” Alex notes.  
“Is there a good side to Brum?” Peter regards the exit signs a little doubtfully.  
“Of course. There’s the gun quarter, the lunatics, the extensive canal network…you know how important canals were.”  
“There’s Cadbury” Peter grudgingly admits, wondering if he can have an early afternoon tea.   
“That’s the spirit!” Alex adroitly follows the M42 south a way, impressed the traffic is flowing freely. “Want to do a spot of historical exploring?”  
“Like Farnborough Hall?”   
“I’ve not been” Alex admits, “I’m up for it if you are. Or…there must be some decent old castles.”  
Peter checks the map, nodding, “What would you like? Earthwork remains or an actual building?”   
“Remains. They’re much more interesting. What have you found?”  
“Deddington. It’s just past Banbury. We’ll stop and find somewhere to stay then go on and explore. Tomorrow you can go and buy your new pants.”  
“Trousers” Alex grumbles, following the signs.   
“Pants” Peter leers, “I don’t hold out much hope for your current ones.”  
“You are insatiable” Alex flushes, but he doesn’t look too upset.

  


***

  


Peter, unpacking in a flat that feels even more cramped than after _Green Valley_ , smiles and carefully sets the photograph of the harvest on his dresser. He likes it for all sorts of reasons; Ruth’s laughter that had barely been contained for the crucial moment, their ‘helpers’ taking a break from running around in costume literally pitching in, Alex trusting him to hold the horses, the easy way the same man had scrambled to the top of the dray and beamed down upon them with nary a care. In particular the easy way Alex had laughingly tumbled down into his arms, launching himself from the tall stack with perfect equanimity. “I clearly didn’t stab you enough with that pitchfork” Peter grumbled, catching him and bracing them both against the dray.  
“I could do with a little more” Alex had agreed, adjusting Peter’s neckerchief with nimble fingers.   
But now they are studiously unpacking in their separate flats, having agreed to meet for dinner in nearly twenty-four hours. Peter isn’t sure he knows how to be alone for that long.

  


Across the city, Alex is also unpacking. He throws the new clothes in the machine, carefully folds his other clothes into their drawers, and gleefully lays all of the tools and crafts he wasn’t stopped from pilfering out in the lounge. They somehow wander into the small kitchen with him, and he’s fairly certain that one or two collections of greenwood have wormed their way into his already overflowing spare room, but there’s nobody coming over who will use that space any time soon, so it is of little concern. Twenty-four hours had seemed a reasonable adjournment when they were illegally parked outside his flat and rushing his collections upstairs; twenty-four hours seems much less reasonable when faced with a darkening sky and a silent flat. Alex arranges the wheat and dried flowers from the farm in a pottery jug Peter brought back from a souk, grabs his coat, and hustles himself out to the supermarket for milk and eggs and the other essentials of the kitchen. Twenty-three hours to go.

  


***

  


They end up meeting late afternoon. Peter is happily catching up with the goings-on at Petrie when Alex texts apologising that he will be late as he has got caught up at the British Library. So they meet, as people have met for decades, at Euston Station. “I was being social” Peter greets him, unable to help appreciating the lean, long, figure in its new trousers, “What were you doing, being a nerd?”  
“Nerds are cool” Alex retorts, striding over, “And no I wasn’t. I was just looking up a couple of things about the farm, and seeing if they had anything better than _Book of the Farm_.”  
“But Alex. There’s nothing better than _Book of the Farm_ ”   
“Now who’s the nerd?”   
“I’m your nerd” Peter grins, taking his hand. “Wanna eat here then?”  
“You actually do have hollow legs! It’s barely five. I’m happy to head back out and have that pasta we planned. Though…” if Peter didn’t know better he’d say his partner was nervous. “Maybe we should talk first?”  
“Talk?”  
“Yeah. That thing people do? Just, I was thinking about what you said about moving and things. Spending time together. Going out. You know?”  
Alex always has asked questions when he isn’t sure. Peter gently keeps them on a trajectory for Regent’s Park, nodding. Alex waits until they’ve crossed at the lights, biting his lip, twining his fingers.  
“Well. You said we’ve been living together for nearly six months now. Straight away. So there’s no need not to do that now we’re…umm…here. Now.” One elegant hand gestures at the inherent awkwardness of describing the difference between the Victorian farm and the modern city. “Which is. It’s true. But also what about work? What about everything else? This is where all our memories are.”   
Peter wants to point out that they actually have some quite excellent memories in a bunch of different places, but he knows that if he interrupts now they’ll only have to go through this painful part again, so he remains quiet.   
Alex squeezes his hand, relaxing as soon as they’re in the park even though it’s not exactly a fine day. Peter is well aware they’re not as happy in the city, a little more tense, a little more on edge, but he hasn’t worked out how to verbalise this without it sounding like an accusation.   
“So there’s concerns” Alex continues, pacing on under the damp trees, “Not to mention I don’t know where we’d go. But I…I thought we could maybe consolidate here. While we find somewhere.”  
  


Peter stops walking, gets dripped on, shifts closer to the tree trunks, and smiles sheepishly. “You mean move in now and look for somewhere in the country as well. Best of both worlds?”  
“Yeah. I thought…well your place is bigger. And it’s a park nearby even though it hasn’t a garden.”  
“And it has a garage” Peter says on auto-pilot. “Easier for the car.”  
“Only if you want. We needn’t decide right away.”  
“I want.” Peter nods, certain, “And we should go round after dinner and start looking at where we can, what did you say? Consolidate. We don’t need two sofas. No matter if we end up at mine or yours or somewhere entirely different. Though I think mine makes logical sense.”  
Alex looks at him as if he’s sprouted a second head, laughs shortly, ducks his head, and beams. “Alright” he allows, “But we’ll have to check everything thoroughly. Come on Peter!” And they’re running, racing each other over the puddles and back to the tube stop, dodging pedestrians and busses and one brave cyclist, wind in their faces like they’re back on the farm, pulling up laughing and breathless to fumble for oyster cards and stop onto the escalator like sober adults.

_This_ thinks Peter looking over at a windswept Alex, _This is where we’re supposed to be._

Then they’re minding the gap and clasping straps and Alex is pressed against him in the crowded train, smelling of rain and cold, chattering nineteen to the dozen about locations and trains and space-required-for-bees, and what interesting digs might be happening in Egypt when all the issues there die down again. Peter takes his hand. Alex stutters to a stop, looking at him in surprise, a slow, shy, smile spreading over his face. “Alright Peter?”  
For the first time the automatic reply is exactly what he wants to say. “Alright Alex.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I give Peter a traveling childhood because during the Christmas Special he haltingly talks about a childhood in Germany, in the sort of tone reminiscent of people who didn't really have a single set home. The misfortunes that have befallen Peter's archeological exploits are taken from the intro to one of their Historical Farm books. I would love to know why someone has to light themselves on fire twice for science! 
> 
> Petrie Museum is part of UCL, well within walking distance of the British Library etc. We know Peter has provided donations to the museum, and the boys needed a place to talk. 
> 
> Not a lot of research went into this story, but it was really fun to write and meet a new fandom! Also lovely to have the chance to write a story where there aren't major world events clamouring in the background (though I reserve the right for a sequel featuring same).


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